


Just a Story

by FanficsAndFantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, idk what to add for tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsAndFantasy/pseuds/FanficsAndFantasy
Summary: An army doctor just back from the war in Afghanistan, John Watson finds comfort between the pages of a good book.





	Just a Story

Gunfire erupts around them, assaulting the senses with loud bursts of sound. The blazing sun reflects off of shining barrels, aimed and ready to kill, and beats down on the soldiers covering the field. Some are still standing, but most lay in the knee-high grass, wounded and dying. The blood from bullet holes and gashes seems to soak into the surroundings, giving everything a red tinge. John stands as those around him fall, helpless to his comrades, his friends in arms. Soon, he is alone, and a shot rings out from the distance. It echoes singularly, and the world seems to slow. The bullet punctures through John's left shoulder, and he falls to the soft earth in agony. He can feel himself dying, the blood oozing away like his life force. He senses his eyes start to glaze over, and with a final breath-

John shot up in bed, panting heavily and nearly sobbing at the reminiscence of the memories. Sweat had permeated through his plain white bedshirt, and the sheets were a tangled mess of beige. Reaching up to his face, he felt the wetness of tears. Salt streaks ran down his cheeks, crumbling as he brushed his fingers against sore and swollen eyes. Running a hand through his short blond hair, John sighed. They can never go away. The thoughts, the guilt, the pain, the blood; it all stayed with him to the waking world. He lost brothers, people closer to him than his own family, and that never goes away.

With another deep sigh, John pulled himself out of the hard cot in the corner of the room, grabbing his cane to steady himself. The limp was something left from his time in the war. It was a deformity, a scar perhaps not on the leg itself, but on the soldier's self-esteem. He was broken and useless with the limp. 'What to do today?' he wondered wearily. It's not like he did much these days. He stayed in his bedsit, watching the world go on cheerfully around him as he slowly drowned. Perhaps he would be productive today.

Put upon with some final, desperate chance of achieving something, anything at all, John decided to spend a day at the local library. It was a place he had enjoyed as a child, and delving into one of the many books may help him escape the war, if only for a time. He reluctantly got dressed in something presentable for the outside community and limped out the door. He didn't bother grabbing breakfast or a coat. The weather was warm today, one of the few in the typically rainy city. As for breakfast, he rarely ate these days anyway. One more skipped meal wouldn't be the death of him, and even if it was... well.

John limped the two blocks to the city's library, as a cab was far too expensive on his army pension. Food was too expensive, yet alone a luxury ride. On the way, he seemed to receive looks of pity from the passerby. They were looks he hated, those ones. They only reinforced his idea that he was a cripple, he was broken. The long walk was made longer than it had been before his injury, but he eventually arrived at the doors to the building he was looking for. 

The library was not a large one, and was sparsely decorated. It was used even less by the people in the city, as e-books and audios became easier to access. John always was old-fashioned, preferring the smell of worn and familiar parchment. It brought nostalgia with the crinkle of pages turning and the roughness of the cover. Unfortunately, today's generation knew not of this joy, and so went without. This was what caused the library to be what it was. The beginnings of vines poked from the smallest of cracks in its walls, and the doors could use a polish. Realistically, they should probably just be replaced. The windows, too, were dusty and the shades covering them faded by the sun. Nonetheless, it was more of a home to John Watson than his bedsit ever would be.

The doors let out a squeak of protest as he pushed his way inside, and the scarlet carpet swished under his feet. The dust created by the door's opening swirled about in the single ray of sunlight cast between the curtains, creating complex patterns in the air. John breathed in deeply as he walked farther inside, reveling in the number of hardbacks piled atop endless mahogany shelves. It was good to be where he belonged. He limped along slowly, running the fingers of the hand not clutching his cane along the spines of the books reverently. He didn't know what he wanted; he instead simply looked for a book that caught his eye, and one soon did.

It was a dark brown colour, the title written in gold calligraphy upon the front. It was almost as if it was proudly showing off its beauty in the decrepit place, daring those brave enough to try to read it. Of course it had caught John's attention. The title of the book read "The Complete Sherlock Holmes" and in small letters underneath, "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle". It was beautiful, and John immediately set to opening the cover.

Here he sat painfully into one of the rickety wooden chairs of the library. They were dark and probably once elegant, but time had worn them, as well as the matching table. The doctor settled down into the most comfortable position and opened to the first page. It was inked in fancy script as "The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes" and a soft crinkling as the page turned revealed the first story, "Silver Blaze". So started the tale, with a flurry of words plastered upon the page. It began with, "'I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,' said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning.  
'Go! Where to?'     'To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland.' I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England..."

-●-●-●-●-●-

Four hours had passed before the reader of the stories stirred once again. He had read through three already, and could quite thoroughly say that he was enraptured. The shorts were written from the perspective of a person much like himself, a doctor recently returned from the army, but his life was something to be desired. In this book, the John twin ran around with an enigmatic fellow by the name of Sherlock Holmes, solving insoluble crimes throughout the English countryside and beyond. It was truly amazing, and he could feel himself slipping into the book, becoming immersed in it. It already felt like a part of his soul, like something he had missed unknowingly his entire life. The light was noticeably beginning to dim in the sky, as he had woken up later than any army would allow. He should be getting to his sleeping place. It wasn't his home; nothing could beat the imaginary worlds he felt priveleged enough to spend time in on that front. 

Standing, John popped his back and stretched his legs. Well, he stretched one of them. The other was rather useless. He hobbled quickly to the front desk, which was covered by a thin film of dust, and had the kind old lady there check the book out for him. She was one of the few people that knew John, and she always greeted him cordially. She didn't pity him, or have sympathy for him, like the others did. It was what made her tolerable. "There you go, John," she cooed sweetly as she handed over the book. "I remember reading this one; one of my favourites by far. You go ahead and read it dear, have fun," she called as he limped back into the streets of London, leaving his sanctuary behind.

For a week and a half, John Watson hardly ate and slept even less. He was now halfway through the book as a whole, having just finished "The Hound of the Baskervilles". The world was odd, almost surreal to him now. He was in a bubble, mind floating blissfully through the world of 1895 England. He imagined that he lived in Baker Street, chasing after the illustrious and mysterious William Sherlock Scott Holmes and solving murders that even the police couldn't figure out. The army doctor was the John Watson in the book, a writer of the adventures he and his flatmate escaped to. More than that, perhaps there was something there. There was a feeling, that sense of adrenaline and happiness whenever the name was mentioned on the page. Sherlock Holmes. What a curious name.

John imagined him to be slender and pale; he looked intelligent with bright, veridian eyes and high, sharp cheekbones. The Sherlock envisioned had ebony curls and strong features, prominent against creamy skin. His Belstaff swayed when he walked, or when caught in a gale, further outlining his mysterious figure. He seemed exotic as John imagined him, just as his name would have you believe. As he was imagined, there was only one word capable of describing him. Beautiful. Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man, and perhaps, just perhaps, John had started falling in love with this character created and defined within his mind.

The days went on, John continued to eat and sleep the bare minimum, and soon a month had gone by. If anything, he had only delved more into the fantasy world of Arthur Conan Doyle. He was a part of it, no longer participating in the real world's events. He was nearing the end of the stories, and one could say that he had been dragged down a void. The pages were like a drug, stronger than cocaine, and the character of Sherlock Holmes himself was captivating. There was no escape. He saw the consulting detective in his own flat from time to time, and spoke with him over tea for many hours when he wasn't reading. It was easy to come up with the responses he'd have, and the small inflections with which he'd enunciate. John Watson, the army reject, had fallen irrefutably in love with his detective. The hallucinations he had of Sherlock seemed only to help the case, John's little sleep and nutrition clearing his mind enough for them to make an appearance. By now, it seemed almost as if they truly knew each other, had truly been flatmates, and had truly gone on the many adventures of the collective novel.

When John finished the book, he was distraught. What could he possibly do with his life now that the one thing that brought him joy was at an end? A small voice in the back of his mind whispered an answer, but John ignored it, storing the voice away for a later time. He was far too busy having tea with Sherlock Holmes to think of that right now.

John had permanently brought out an extra chair for the consulting detective when the hallucinations started, and they, at this moment sat respectively across from each other. Light played on Sherlock's features, light that was not present in the room, giving him a surreal look. It highlighted his cheekbones and set a lively sparkle in his eye. From all appearances, he seemed almost real, solid. John certainly believed he was. Holmes had become a part of his very soul, manifesting himself into every facet of the army doctor's life. He walked beside him when he went out, they sat quietly in a barren flat; oftentimes, John would even wake up to find Sherlock staring at him, pale hands put together under his chin.

Today was no different, and the taller man walked beside his doctor with long, purposeful strides as he journeyed to the therapist. It was a required monthly visit for ex-soldiers, just a check-up on their mental health. John was doing fine, of course. He had Sherlock Holmes by his side, a loyal friend that was his constant interest in a dull life. Soon enough, their stroll was over, as they had come upon the therapy building. 

It loomed on their left, ominous and official in appearance. The enclosure was a white brick, cleaned within an inch of its life, and windows covered by oaken shutters solidified its professional appearance. The doors, too, were a light brown, and it was these doors through which the duo entered into a waiting room. Baby blue was the prominent color, with beautiful pictures adorning the walls and slightly darker blue chairs lined along the sides. Sherlock plopped into one of the chairs with a sigh, and John followed much more calmly. It was going to be a while.

After a small infinity, a door to their left opened, and an attendant called them into the office. Her clothes were cheery, and the smile on her face seemed too wide for a depression clinic. She motioned them along, and the boys went willingly. There was no use avoiding the appointment. Once inside the new location, they sat in white chairs across from a young lady with a clipboard in her hands. This room was decidedly less calming, the stark walls and wooden flooring seeming to have the opposite effect. It spiked the nerves, making its occupants feel anxious and vulnerable. Sherlock felt it too, and he began to pace about the space behind the therapist.

"Hello, John, how are you today?" She asked in a voice far too friendly. It was a loaded question, meant to open the patients up about sharing their secrets. John still replied, of course, with an 'I'm doing well' to satisfy her. They talked for a while, Sherlock still animatedly pacing at the back of the room. John's eyes followed him, and soon the therapist caught onto this. "What do you see?" She asked softly, hoping not to alarm the man that there was no one there. "My friend, Sherlock. He came here with me, didn't I tell you?" 

Shoulders slumping slightly, John's therapist gave a small sigh. She had thought John had finally found a friend, was getting better. It seemed that he only had a figment of his imagination instead. As if handling a wounded animal, she questioned John about how often he saw Sherlock, and for how long they had been friends. As the conversation progressed, it became clear what she was implying. According to John's therapist, Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a delusion. There was nobody there.

The appointment was over quickly after that, John's therapist warning him to separate himself from the hallucination and promising to look into pills he could take to ease this. The army doctor and his detective left the building, walking home in stony silence. This continued even when they were sitting in their familiar seats, and they seemed to stare through each other instead of at. Finally, John broke the tense silence.

"Sherlock, tell me honestly, are you simply a part of my imagination?" His voice cracked, sounding broken with the heavy weight of the words crushed upon him. Was it possible that this person he loved, trusted with all his heart, truly believed in was only a mirage? He looked down ashamedly, for the answer became more apparent the more he thought about it. There were times he had questioned, and they came now to the forefront of his mind. Minute details that he noticed weren't quite right. 

It may have been the lighting, slightly askance from the natural position, or the well-fitting shirt that was always a slightly different shade of purple. It was his friend's ability to get through impossibly narrow cracks, or how his feet seemed almost to not touch the ground at times. Yes, the more he observed about his flatmate, the more that John came to the realization he dreaded over all... Sherlock Holmes truly was a fake.

It was the only theory that suited all the facts, yet, for a time, John refused to believe it. He had spent many hours with his friend, going over old cases, reading the newspaper, or even sitting quietly, alone yet together in a sense. He had fallen in love with Sherlock, and you can't fall in love with a fictional character, right? He was wrong, he supposed. Even Holmes agreed that he was imaginary, pointing out further facts to the point. 'I never drink my tea, John, because it would pass right through me; I don't move things around, John, because I can't. I have no substance, John.' Slowly, the army doctor began to fall away, crumbling like his childhood library into rubble.

Three weeks had gone by since the therapy appointment, and John simply couldn't take any more torture. He was tired of this life, anyway. There was nothing to lose, so what's stopping him from cutting it short, leaving nothing, no memory, no possessions, behind? He limped about the house, gathering the things he would need with deliberation. The recipe was really quite simple; he needed only his Browning, left rusting and unused from his army days, and a single bullet. Out of comfort and love, he also opted to bring 'The Complete Sherlock Holmes' to his bed. After all, it was perhaps the singular downfall of him.

He propped himself up against the wall of his bed, gun held in his left hand and book resting underneath his right. He sighed. It was relaxing, in a way, to know that there would be very little to worry about, soon. There would be no expectations, no hindrances, no limitations. There would be no more life, and with it goes the many troubles that life causes. 

John raised the barrel of the gun to his mouth, a metallic tang making itself known against his lips and tongue. Looking around one last time, he saw Sherlock sitting in his respective chair, but his lean face was pointed towards John. Down his ivory skin rolled a single teardrop, making its way across a jagged cheekbone like a droplet of morning dew. It was the last thing John saw before he pulled the trigger, releasing a deafening crack into the still air around him.

-●-●-●-●-●-

John's eyes opened to a dreary day, typical of London. He looked around blearily, eyes blurred from a deep sleep, and found that things were much different than the city he was born into. He was lain on the pavement, back pressed against a brick structure. The streets, however, were dirt and cobble, inhabited by horse and carriage alike. The residences were smaller, the city more of a town in looks than anything else. Turning to his right, John was met with an all-too-familiar face.

"Get up, Doctor Watson. We have much to do today."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, friends, so, there's my first fic posted to AO3. I know it's probably not up to the standards of the many amazing people who write on here, but it's a start. It's not beta-read or anything like that, so sorry for any glaring errors :)


End file.
